


laid me on the table like a meal

by Legendaerie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Feelings, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post Old Soldiers, Rated For Violence, Symbolism, these men are like wine; aged and bitter as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 13:56:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10765626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: Caught and injured by a recent fight, Jack talks to the Reaper.





	laid me on the table like a meal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ei8htbithero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ei8htbithero/gifts).



> Beta'd by the super patient [Kryptonianott](http://kryptonitanott.tumblr.com/) who was also a Big Enabler for getting me into this. Well, this and Gabriel's voice in Uprising. hot DAMN.
> 
> and gifted to Katie. i know its like. eight months after you got into these angry old men but i'm here now. i'm so upset. i do push-ups for every reaper i find in skirmish.
> 
> (title and opening lyrics are from Hammer by Dry the River)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _It was a difficult decision_  
_But every drop of water was a lake_  
_And I guess I had a vision_  
_Of every unavoidable mistake_  
  
_Though I never had a white flag_  
_I surrendered you my every vital sign_  
_But the thing about the heart is_  
_It beats with no instruction from the mind..._

 

* * *

 

 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The voice is like the rasp of a blade being sharpened, all steel and stone, accompanied by the distinctive sound of the Reaper’s footsteps. Thud thud thud and then the silence of the grave, the sigh of his wraith form billowing forwards, and repeat. It ruins Jack’s plans to use this old Overwatch base as a temporary safe house while he patches himself up. Beautiful though it may be, Pernambuco has had rumors of a Talon base, but so far he’s found nothing but local gang trouble and a failing in his own reflexes.

“That’s rich coming from something like you.” He doesn’t turn around, too aware of the blood seeping through his fingers as he tries to staunch the wound. Figures he’d run into someone from Talon now, when he’s got his guard down and Ana is following the next lead. His pulse rifle is just out of his reach on the table; maybe, if he dives for it--

There’s a rush of air, a flutter of leather and a sickening smell of burned flesh, then the muzzle of a shotgun presses against the back of Jack’s head.

“I seem to be making the most of my condition, unlike you, _Soldier_.” He pushes Jack forward until his hips are flush against the table, and he has to catch himself from falling. Long-expired medical supplies scatter as Jack whirls around, snatching the pulse rifle at the last minute. There’s barely enough room for him to wedge his gun in between their bodies, but he finds a way, jamming the barrel into where the Reaper’s neck should be. “But you shouldn’t be here.”

From this distance, the kickback could seriously damage his spine, the butt of the gun wedged as it is against his hip bone. His visor tells him fuck all about the Reaper’s expression under the mask, but it does warn him about the shotgun still hovering an inch from his left cheekbone.

Their stalemate stretches on in silence, broken only by the sounds of their out of sync breaths and, after a time, the clatter of a pill bottle rolling to the floor.

“You gonna shoot me or not, _Reaper_?” he asks at last. The rifle is starting to ache in his arms, blood soaking through to the top of his pants. Reaper stays still.

“Once you tell me how you got into this place.”

So it’s been converted into a Talon base now. Shit. He’s really fucked up now. Reaper probably thinks he hacked his way in or somehow got access to the codes at the front door, but he’d just crawled his way in through an old maintenance hatch that had been forgotten, eroded by time and rust enough that he could beat his way inside.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” is all he reveals. Let Talon be paranoid that someone has a leg up on them.

With a snarl, Reaper drops his gun and knocks Jack’s aside in the same movement, sinking his claws into the jagged knife wound in Jack’s side. He twists, fresh blood surging from the injury, and a groan threatens to bubble out of Jack’s throat. He’s going to die at the mutated hands of Gabriel Reyes, corrupted by death and Talon like the host of some parasitic mushroom, but he won’t give him the satisfaction of his pain.

“I would,” Reaper says, in a voice that’s almost a purr. When he withdraws his hand, Jack grabs the table to keep himself upright, helpless to watch as the Reaper melts into nothingness again.

A needle punches through the skin of his neck, and when Jack jerks away he sees Reaper crouched on the table behind him, empty biotic vial dangling from his bloody grip. The pose is so familiar it staggers him, and he half expects the Reaper to say his name. _Gotcha, Jackie._

“I have four of these,” Reaper says, and holds up a modern med-pack, “and seven more rounds in these,” and he drops the empty vial to summon a shotgun. He aims it at Jack’s leg and fires, the flesh on his thigh tearing away and knocking him to the ground even as his original wound seals itself up. The wonders of medicine are a small comfort in a situation like this. “So talk.”

“Want me to talk? Fine.” Jack clutches his leg as it knits itself together, stopping as the limited biotic powers run out. Rage prickles through him, flooding his body with fire. “Let’s talk about how some turncoat bastard  from Talon doesn’t deserve to stand where _heroes_ once stood.”

Reaper shoots him again, this time in the shoulder, and saunters down to stab the next biotic through the tendons in his wrist. “Don’t talk to me about heroes.”

The muzzle of Reaper’s gun is pressed up against his chin, and he braces himself for the feeling of pellets and gunpowder tearing through skin and bone. Biotics were never good at getting the fine details right; he’s going to lose a few teeth, for sure. Probably the rest of his visorless sight as well when the round tears his corneas to shreds. The aesthetics don’t bother him, but the idea of being crippled even further...

But the shot never comes. Instead Jack finds Reaper crouched over him, hands anchoring Jack’s wrists to the concrete floor of the old Overwatch base.

“I watched more heroes die undercover than you shook hands with at your press conferences,” Reaper says, the words trickling out from behind his mask to drip down Jack’s covered nose. They worm their way into his brain, tugging on threads of long-tangled memories, taunting him with visions of the past. “Every agent Blackwatch lost was one of _my_ men, and each was worth ten of yours.”

Jack stays perfectly still as his body knits itself back together, leaving nothing but the heavy feeling of drying blood on his clothes. “A barely controlled pack of _criminals--_ ”

“--did more for humanity than any of Overwatch’s overseers and benefactors. _We_ ,” and he pushes Jack’s wrists into the floor for emphasis, “did more. But you and Ana chose them.”

The Reaper’s words cut deep, mirrors his own uncertainty back at him, but not even the best tactical visor in the world could have told him what path was the right to take. He murdered humans today, barely out of their teenage years, because they’d been against him; as unthinkable to the Strike Commander Morrison of the past as turning his back on Gabriel.

(They’re monsters, now, the pair of them.)

He’s never been this close to Reaper before, and takes a moment to study him. The heavy coat draped over his body, the oily sheen of leather catching the weak, ambient light of the overhead strips. The human shapes of strength, there, in his thighs, and his arms, at odds with the surreal curves of his mask.

 _So dramatic_ , he recalls in someone else’s voice, one that had often been aimed at him with derision and desire in equal measure. If Jack’s lip curls up in a snarl, it’s hidden by his mask and no one sees it.

Above him, Reaper sucks in a breath that seems to tug at the air inside Jack’s lungs, making him choke and start to struggle. Jack flips them, but the body above him fades before his back touches the floor. A heeled boot slams into Jack’s spine, pinning him to the ground.

“Why can’t I kill you?”  Reaper asks, an edge of frustration seeping into his tone.

“Better men than you have tried,” Jack snaps, rolling to the side and scrabbling for his pulse rifle again. Reaper kicks it away, and gets a heel to the kneecap for his trouble.

They spar like that for several minutes; blocked punches and body blows, the satisfaction of landing a hit infrequent. Reaper has the advantage in the close range with a body that never stays substantial for long, and eventually he has Jack pinned up against the table again, arching away from the clawed gloves that tear his visor off.

Without the aid of the visor, Jack is naked and blind. He sucks in a breath of fresh air that still tastes sweet for being underground, and hardens his expression into a flat line as he glares into the ambiguous eyeholes of the mask above him.

At first, Reaper is silent. And then the claws sink into his throat, choking him as the air is filled with the cloying scent of his wraith form.

“ _Why can’t I kill you?_ ” he repeats, voice a roar like a distant tornado, boring through years of soldier’s training and hitting Jack with an instinctual fear.

Jack’s blind kick connects, and he falls back against the table as Reaper retreats. His hands fumble behind him, looking for the visor. “We’re both already dead,” he spits, and has just enough time to clap the scarlet band over his eyes before Reaper comes for him again. This time, however, he’s ready.

Or so he thinks.

“Jack,” rasps the Reaper, and that name hits him as hard as a shotgun blast. A moment of lucidity from the Talon agent, maybe, and his words are heavy with affection. Jack’s guard falters and Reaper is inches from his face again. If long-buried love kills him, he deserves it.

“Jackie,” says Reaper, in the same tone Gabriel would use when teasing him, “you don’t know what dead is. Let me show you.”

A clawed hand reaches up, disengages the bird-like mask; it slips down like a spectre, like a coin tossed in a well, and Reaper reveals his face.

Jack would have given anything to be wearing his own mask right now, or nothing at all; anything would have been better than seeing Gabriel Reyes like his most treasured photograph come to life. As though he hadn’t aged a day since the explosion, but oh god his eyes. His eyes were burning, backlit like an animals, and it made Jack feel ill.

(It made him remember, in stunning detail, one of the really bad rounds of treatments from the SEP. Until that day Gabriel had taken everything with a grim smile, a joke, a stoic silence. But in between bouts of dry-heaving into a wastebin until he was hacking up chunks of dark blood, he had looked Jack in the eye and his gaze had been fever-bright, desperate. In that moment, Jack would have done anything to shoulder part of his friend’s agony.

How far they’ve both fallen.)

He doesn’t realize he’s reaching for Gabriel until his hand is stopped, caught in Reaper’s steely grasp. Slowly, Reaper guides Jack’s hand up to his cheek, where the first touch makes the skin smear like wet paint, baring the smoke-stained bones of his teeth and jaw with a puff of rancid smoke--

The hand tightens around Jack’s wrist, preventing him from pulling away; instead he nuzzles Jack’s palm, distorting his features even further until his skin looks melted off. His eyes are locked with Jack’s visor.

“Drink it in. This is what you left behind.” At last he yanks Jack’s hand away, features blurring with smoke before they reformed again without a trace of their former distortion. The image is seated into Jack’s mind nonetheless; and he makes no move to touch him again.

He has to say something; it's what he was known for in Overwatch, his ability to inspire and command with his words and presence. But his eloquence was burned out of him at the sight of Reaper’s face, and all he can manage is “I'm sorry.”

“Empty words from an empty man,” says Reaper, the movement of his mouth uncanny like distorted film, as though his eyes are the only real thing about him. “Just like always.”

“No,” says Jack, as his heart breaks all over again. “They weren't always empty. I meant them once.”

This gets a reaction out of Reaper, a widening of his eyes, and it hurts like his claws in Jack’s wound had to see him look so human. Just as fast, his expression shifts, blurring on the edges as his anger burns away his flesh.

“You're lying.”

The shotgun is back, pressed against the bottom of Jack’s chin, and the way the barrel trembles against his skin tells him more about Reaper’s indecision than his face does.

He tilts his chin up further, baring his throat. “I meant it when I said I loved you.”

The snarl that bubbles from Reaper’s threat seeps through his gritted teeth, and his face nearly splits down the middle as he leans closer and hisses, “and I believed you. But look at us now. Look at where that brought us.”

A revelation floats across his mind like a more in sunlight; Jack pounces, grabbing for straws for what might save his life from the man, the monster his friend had become.

“It brought you back to me.”

The room they’re standing in is a familiar one, where Jack can envision younger versions of himself and Gabriel, stealing glances at each other over the war table that always meant the same thing.

_Come back alive._

“We didn't get it right, but…” Jack takes Reaper’s hand and guides it up to his visor, closing his eyes at the sound of its release, “it was good to see you again.”

As the visor falls away, the rest of the world is distorted much like Reaper’s face had been; blurry watercolors and deep shadows. If Reaper wanted to kill him, he could never stop him.

He's not sure if he _ever_ can, after this. _Too sentimental_ , were the reports written on Jack Morrison. _Can't take the difficult shots._ It was Gabriel’s job to be hard, a burden he bore with a smile that only cracked when they were alone.

Reaper lurches forward and Jack flinches, wondering if he’ll feel the burn of a bullet, the chill of a knife, or something else entirely when Reaper kills him. Instead a mouth is pressed against his, cool and firm.

Oh.

(He really isn't going to be able to kill him now.)

If all the possible outcomes Jack saw for this day, kissing Reaper wasn't one of them. And god help him, he likes it, the chill of the metal-tipped gloves on the back of his neck, the weight of the body pushing him back against the desk. He opens his mouth, hoping to taste Gabriel’s carefully hoarded favorite coffee in his mouth, but all he tastes is ashes and regret.

Maybe that's how he tastes, too, or maybe something better; Reaper feels as though he’s trying to devour Jack (and he might be) but when Jack pushes him away to breathe he doesn't push very far.

The line of his mouth seems to reach his ears, a yawning darkness that could swallow him whole, but Reaper gives himself a shake and reforms. Trailing his clawed gloves along Jack’s jawline, his voice is deep and dark as the night sky, threatening to swallow him. “Are you going to run again?”

“No.” Even if he wasn’t hemmed in, half blind, and unarmed, he wouldn’t leave. Not when Reaper-- when _Gabriel_ is so close.

“You should,” and Jack can’t tell if there’s warning or want in his voice as his caresses continue, down to trace the tendons in his neck.

He closes his eyes - his vision is so poor it makes little difference. “Never was good at retreating.”

“Stubborn ass,” Gabriel concedes; and when he sinks his teeth into Jack’s neck he feels the pull, the chill with certainty. In his hand, his visor beeps a vital signs warning.

The hickey stops, and when Jack opens his eyes Reaper is reforming on the other side of the room. There’s a pale haze seeping from his mouth, like cigarette smoke, and inhaling it shakes him awake. It takes another second for his heart to resume, and it pounds in his chest like a prisoner demanding release.

“I can’t-- I can’t do this, Jackie. Not like this.” Reaper is holding something that he raises to his face; through his blurry eyes he looks like death itself to Jack, a shadow with a smear of light in the center.

Jack follows suit, pulls his visor and mask on and tucks his gun under his shoulder, but follows as Reaper starts to walk away. “Then we’ll fix this. We’ll heal you.”

“You can’t.”

“I have to try. I-- I owe you that, at least.”

Reaper throws him a look over his shoulder, swiping a wall panel aside to reveal a conspicuously new, conspicuously not Overwatch screen and keyboard. Jack adjusts his grip on his rifle but refuses to raise it, fixated on this new objective. Gabriel is still alive; somewhere in there, somewhere deep.

“You do,” Reaper agrees, “but you can’t. So let’s call this even.”

He types in a command; the screen flashes red. _COMPROMISED. SELF DESTRUCTION EMMINENT IN 15 SECONDS._ But before Jack can ready his rockets, the darkness envelopes him, all the way down to his lungs and it tears him apart from the inside out.

Is this how it feels, to be Reaper? The world spins at the edges of his vision and his body feels weightless, the panel and the war room stained with his blood shrinking as he’s pulled backwards. He doesn’t even feel the explosion that buckles the floor beneath him, chunks of concrete and steel surging up as everything glows orange-white. If he had a heart, it would be racing. If he had lungs, he would be screaming. But he has nothing, and is nothing, until they both reform outside the base.

“Quite a bag of tricks I’ve got now, huh?” Reaper asks, as the ash and dust settle around them. Mask filtering the worst of the smoke, Jack fights down the urge to cough. “Being dead comes with it’s perks.”

“Gabriel.” The name is bittersweet on his tongue, like when he’d bitten into his grapefruit at breakfast after having a piece of Gabriel’s muffin. Jack levers himself onto his feet, rifle heavy in his arms. Even through the mask, he can read his once-lover’s expression perfectly. “I won’t give up, you know. Next time, I won’t hold back.”

He raises the barrel of his rifle, presses it against Reaper’s chest, and holds his gaze.

“I won’t let Talon take any more heroes.”

Gabriel raises his hand and places it on the pulse rifle, nudging it a hand’s breadth to the side. “Neither will I,” he says, and melts away for the last time.

Jack turns away from the fading shadow, abandoning the old gravel road to loose himself in the trees. And he doesn’t look back.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
